Hart compared her to Emily: Emily as she had been when he had first met her. Married and happy, two young kids running round her and a husband who loved her and cared for her; a home they’d built themselves and acres of hard winter wheat that was theirs to harvest. He thought of her now: her husband dead and covered over by his own land; her daughter killed by a gang of robbers to whom one more death meant less than a fall of rain; he thought of her behind that locked door, silent, weeping inside. He tried to picture her in ten years’ time, less.
‘What’s eatin’ you?’ asked Rose, leaning sideways in the saddle.
Hart shook his head. ‘Nothin’.’
She raised one eyebrow. ‘If that’s what you want to say, okay. Long as you don’t expect me to believe it.’
Hart turned on her. ‘I don’t give a damn what you believe!’
He flicked the reins hard and kicked his mount into a fast trot.
‘I’m sorry.’
Rose poured coffee, black and boiling, from the enamel pot and passed the mug across to where Hart was sitting. The small fire crackled up between them. The day had been warm and muggy; the sun had never shown itself but it had been there, out of sight and sullen.
‘What for?’
His fingers touched hers as he took the mug.
‘What I said earlier. ’Bout not believin’ what you said.’
Hart sipped at the coffee but it was too hot. ‘Weren’t no need for me to lose my temper the way I did.’
‘I was pryin’. That was wrong. What you were thinkin’, that weren’t none of my business.’
In the flickering light of the fire, her hair looked darker, occasionally shot through with patches of brighter, lighter red. The contours of her face were softer, the harsh lines of daylight no longer evident.
‘That’s okay.’
A small animal moved fast through the grass above the hollow in which they had made their camp and both turned their heads towards it.
‘When I went into that saloon at Highwater,’ Rose said, speaking quietly, her voice slightly hoarse, ‘an’ saw that big bastard stretched out in all that money an’ blood, that made me feel so damned good. Better’n I felt for a long, long time.’
Hart nodded. ‘That why you’re helpin’? Takin’ me to the place where they held you. See me deal with the rest of ’em.’
‘You’re payin’ me, aren’t you?’
‘There’s other ways of earnin’ money without so much risk.’
Rose shook her head. ‘One thing I learnt, there ain’t no way of doin’ that. Whatever we earn in this godforsaken land we risk ourselves for every dollar we get.’
‘We?’ questioned Hart.
She nodded with a half-laugh. ‘Sure. You an’ me.’
Hart picked up the coffee and drank. It was bitter, no longer quite too hot. The mug warmed his hands - now that the night had come the day’s heat had disappeared. A wind cut in across the wide plain from the north-east.
Rose pulled a blanket round her shoulders, as if feeling the same cold.
‘You got a bottle of somethin’ in them saddle bags, ain’t you?’ she said.
Hart stood up and walked around the fire. He took a bottle of whiskey from one of the bags and uncorked it, pouring a shot first into the woman’s coffee, then his own.
A nightjar flew over them and away. A twig in the fire suddenly hissed and flared up.
Rose set the mug to her mouth and drank deeply. She swayed a little and tightened the rough wool of the blanket around her.
‘Folk like you an’ me,’ she said after a few moments, ‘we do the most work, the dirtiest work an’ we get the least money.’ She pointed at him with her free hand. ‘Ain’t that so? You tell me if that ain’t so? The dirtiest work for the least money.’
‘I do pretty good,’ said Hart, feeling defensive without being certain why.
‘Yeah,’ said Rose, ‘sure you do. But every time you do pretty good, there’s someone else does better.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe!’
Rose took a hard swallow at the laced coffee and pulled the mug away from her mouth fast as she broke into a series of racking coughs.
‘Too much whiskey,’ said Hart.
‘Not enough.’
She held out the mug towards him and kept it there until he had poured some more of the bottle into it; he freshened up his own drink while the cork was taking the night air.
‘Who you workin’ for right now?’ asked Rose.
‘Myself.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Mostly.’
‘Yourself an’ who else?’
‘Railroad.’
Through the shifting patterns of light, Hart saw her smile. ‘How much they payin’ you for gettin’ their money back?’
‘Ten per cent.’
Rose’s smile broadened. ‘And you call that workin’ for yourself? The railroad stands to get most of its money back and the man who sent you out after it—’
‘Nobody sent me out after anythin’,’ interrupted Hart, his voice tinged with anger.
Rose carried on as if he’d said nothing, speaking over his voice. ‘—sits back in some office somewhere with his feet up on a polished desk an’ someone to light his cigar an’ someone else to clean his shoes till they shine.’
Hart poured himself some more whiskey. ‘You sure do talk a hell of a lot for one woman.’
She turned and leaned through the firelight towards him, the blanket slipping back from her shoulders. ‘Give me another drink and I’ll shut up.’
She did but not for long.
‘There was a woman I met once,’ Rose shook her head, as if to clear it, make the memories fall into place. ‘She was so damned sweet to me I thought the sun shone out of her ass. She took me in when I was close to chewin’ the sawdust off the barroom floor an’ suckin’ the drink out of it. She was a big woman with a voice you could hear from one end of Main Street to the other and she dressed like she was some kind of queen.’ Rose’s eyes dilated. ‘She was a queen. She lifted me up off the floor an’ got me dressed nice and smellin’ good and then she said to me how I was the prettiest thing she’d ever seen in all her days. “You come and live with Sadie,” she said. “You come and live with Diamond Sadie.”
‘She set me in her carriage and drove me to her house and washed me with her own hands and then she laid me down in her own bed.’
The mug tilted sideways in Rose’s hands.
‘Less than a week later she set me workin.’ Her eyes sought Hart’s through the firelit dark and held them. ‘Oh, she still loved me, she was just takin’ half of what I got from every man who called.’
Hart nodded and tried not to notice the tears that were running soundlessly down Rose’s cheeks. He moved the bottle towards her and when she brought up the mug he poured a stiff shot into it. He had another one himself.
The fire was starting to burn low.
He lifted the blanket so that it was round her again and as his hand touched her neck she turned her face into his and her kiss was salt with tears.
‘It’s goin’ to be a cold night,’ she said, softly, rubbing her hair across his forehead, down his nose and over his mouth. Hart put one hand to her face and lifted it to his own again.
They brought their blankets together and lay close to the fading fire.
‘It’s just,’ she said so low he could hardly hear, ‘two of us lookin’ for a little warmth and that’s all. Ain’t it?’
Hart said nothing, pressed himself against her.
‘’Cause apart from anythin’ else, it ain’t the right time for me.’
He moved his hand along her arm, finally touching the back of her neck beneath her hair.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘It’s okay,’ he said.
When he thought she had fallen asleep, Rose shifted inside his arms and asked: ‘What happened on the train? What was it got to you so?’
Hart rolled away, on to his back, looked u
p at the few stars in the wide sky and told her.
When he had finished she shifted back close to him and rested one arm across his chest, her fingers to his mouth. ‘Seems to me,’ she said, ‘you’re a dangerous man to be around.’
A man bent over the narrow stream and dipped the oaken bucket into it, holding it there till it was three parts full and then lifting it away. He was stockily built, even from that range the swell of his belly clear to the eye.
Hart turned towards Rose.
‘That’s the one they called Mace. He was at the shack when we arrived.’
‘Uh-huh.’
They watched as Mace poured some of the water into a trough alongside the corral fence beside the building. There were two horses in the corral and both of them headed for the water at once.
Mace disappeared with the remainder of the water, leaving the door open behind him. It was impossible to see inside from where they were. Hart tapped Rose on the shoulder and motioned for her to back away. When they were back with the horses, he slipped his Colt .45 from his holster and spun it easily in his hand before checking the load. He drew the Henry from its sheath and handed it to the woman.
‘Use this?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Okay, then—’
She touched his arm. ‘I want to ride in with you.’
Hart shook his head.
‘Yes. I’ve a right.’
‘To take a bullet?’
‘If that’s what it means.’
‘No. You think about what you was sayin’ last night. ’Bout takin’ risks for others.’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes, it does. Besides, I got a right to expect someone behind me, backin’ me up. If one of ’em gets out, you drop him. That’s enough, ain’t it?’
Rose half-turned away. ‘All right.’
He took a box of .44 cartridges from one of the saddle. bags and gave them to her. ‘Just in case.’
She smiled up at him. ‘How many shots you expectin’ me to need?’
‘Don’t know the answer to that one. Ain’t never seen you shoot.’
Rose grinned, about to make a remark but deciding against it. She’d save it for another time.
Hart was in the saddle, turning the horse away.
‘You aiming to get them to talk?’
‘One of ’em, maybe. Depends how far they let me get in. Depends who the other man is inside the shack. If it’s one of ’em as knows me, I’ll have to make my play fast and there won’t be time for any questions.’
She touched the worn leather of his boot. ‘Take care.’
Hart nodded and moved the horse away down the sloping track towards the shack. Rose watched him for a while before moving into a good position, the Henry pushed out in front of her, a slug levered into chamber and the box of spare shells waiting by her elbow.
She hoped he sent one of them running: there were a lot of debts to settle, a lot of scores to be paid: she knew that if a man settled them for her - even this man - it would not be the same. It wouldn’t count.
Hart’s mount threw its head to one side and snickered. Even walking the horse down, there was no way in which the men inside wouldn’t have heard his approach. The thing was to make it appear open, to give them no reason for suspicion. He watched as a rifle showed at the side of the open doorway and then a man behind it. Not the same as before. Not one he recognized from the train. Dark, bald, cartridge belts crossed over his shirt. Good.
Hart raised his right hand in greeting and to show that he was keeping clear of his gun. With the other hand he drew the horse to a halt.
The man in the doorway said something over his shoulder, fast, and the second man appeared. The one who’d fetched the water. Both of them looked Hart over carefully and then the rifle beckoned him to continue forward.
Another movement told him to stop.
The man holding it was halfbreed Mex, his swarthy skin made darker by several days of stubble. He murmured something to the second man, whose pistol was still in its holster, but whose hand was resting on the butt.
‘Where you headin’?’ the second man asked, the one Rose had said was called Mace.
‘West’
‘Where?’
Hart smiled and shrugged. ‘Wherever I end up.
‘A man can ride into trouble that way,’ said the Mexican.
Hart looked at him, at the rifle which was pointing up at his chest. ‘You ain’t sayin’ that’s what I’ve done?’
‘Not yet he ain’t,’ said Mace.
‘Why you ride in here an’ not go roun’?’ asked the Mexican.
Hart shrugged and smiled. ‘Kinda warm. Thought maybe I’d rest up a while. Freshen up. Water my horse.’ He leaned forward and patted the animal’s neck. The rifle followed his move.
‘Stream over yonder,’ said Mace.
‘I know it. Good to talk to folk sometimes, though. Besides, always a chance there’s a pot of coffee brewin’.’
‘There ain’t no coffee brewin’,’ said Mace almost with a snarl.
The breed took a step to the side and his eyes focused on something behind Hart and up the slope, and for an instant he was certain that the woman had been spotted. But the Mexican relaxed and pointed at Hart with the rifle.
‘Do what you got to do, then move out.’
‘Okay,’ said Hart. ‘Suit yourself, but that don’t seem too friendly.’
‘To hell with that!’ said Mace, his hand still resting on the pistol grip. ‘You do like Rafe said.’
Hart shrugged and looped the reins round the saddle pommel; he gripped the pommel in his left hand and swung himself to the ground; lifted the nearest stirrup and made to loosen the saddle girth.
Mace grunted and turned his back, heading towards the shack. Rafe took a few paces backwards, still covering Hart, still not trusting him. Hart kept his hand well clear of the Colt Peacemaker as he led the horse over to the water trough. He bent and scooped handfuls of the water up towards his own face, splashing it and shaking his head from side to side.
Rafe had leaned the rifle against the front wall of the shack and was standing close by, not doing anything, just watching. Mace walked past Hart and climbed over the corral fence, a knife in his hand. He went over to one of the horses and lifted its left foreleg, looking for something that had got wedged inside the shoe.
Hart turned towards Rafe so that his back would be to both Mace and the shack as he moved; he searched the slope for a sign of Rose and saw nothing - that was good.
He walked towards the halfbreed smiling. ‘Sure feels good to wash that trail dirt off your face, don’t it?’
Something in Hart’s eyes, something which didn’t tally with the friendly tone of his voice, gave the Mex a second’s warning. He called out to Mace as he swung and dived for the rifle. Hart dropped his body instinctively into a crouch and went for his gun. The butt of the Colt seemed to rise to meet his hand and as Rafe’s fingers were touching the metal of the rifle barrel the first bullet hit his ribs, below the outstretched arm. He was knocked headlong, several ribs broken, already beginning to hemorrhage inside.
Hart spun round and glimpsed Mace starting to move left to right across his frame of vision. He brought up the Colt and fired once, the slug deflecting off the top section of the corral fence. Mace hesitated, then kept moving. A rifle shot from the hill stopped him in his tracks.
Hart heard a movement behind him and whirled again. Rafe was leaning back against the shack wall and was doing his best to level the rifle. Pain contorted his face.
A second shot from Rose kept Mace at bay.
Hart took aim carefully and hit the halfbreed directly above the diagonal of the twin cartridge belts. Rafe seemed to be lifted up the wall by an unseen hand, his mouth jerked open and blood issued from the corner, bright against his dark skin.
The soil close behind Hart spurted high as a .45 slug dug into it and skidded away.
Rafe fell face forwards, leaving a bloody sme
ar on the wall behind him.
Hart went down on to one knee and tried to get a fix on Mace as the stocky outlaw moved between the panicking horses. He held his Colt steady, gun arm resting on one knee, patiently.
Mace was keeping moving, Rose and Hart both holding their fire now. One of the horses reared up on its hind legs and Hart glimpsed him for a second before he was shielded again from his sight. Then Mace leaped at the calmer of the two animals, grasped its mane and hauled himself up on to the horse’s back.
He threw himself as flat as he could, turning it in a wide circle round the corral, once, twice, building up speed to jump the fence. When he went over, the horse’s front legs hit the top and the animal almost lost its footing but recovered. Hart jumped to his feet and ran to the left; Mace was down alongside the horse now and kicking it hard. A rifle shot sang out from the slope and at first Hart thought it had gone wide. Fifteen yards on, he saw Mace’s hand slide away from the mane, his right leg start to slip backwards; the outlaw hit the ground heavily and rolled over and over, arms high over his head.
Hart got to him as he was coming to a halt, the momentum gained from the fall all but gone.
Rose had shot him through the back, close to the spine; the .44 had torn a rough passage through Mace’s chest, spreading the wounded flesh wide. Hart reached down and shook him, fingers under his jawbone.
Mace’s eyes opened, closed, flickered, opened again.
‘Where’d they head for? Them bastards in white … where?’
The eyes looked at Hart without seeing him.
Hart could hear Rose riding down towards them. He asked his question again and again.
Finally he knelt beside the dying man and rested his head sideways on to Mace’s face. After a few moments he lifted his head away and thumbed down the man’s eyelids. There were traces of blood on his own ear and he wiped these away with his hand.
Rose stared down at the man she had killed. ‘What did he say?’ she asked.
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